The Black Notebook: Tales of Horror and Mystery
by Anozira
Summary: The first in a series of tales inspired by a book of nonholmesian short stories by ACD. Holmes and Watson investigate the mysterious dissapearance of an aeronaut Doyle's name for a pilot. What truths will the Black Notebook reveal?
1. Chapter 1

Editor's Note

Several years ago, a plot was put in place to memorialize one of the most beloved characters of fiction with a museum dedicated to creating and preserving his home and mementos of his work. The product was, as most of my readers will know, the Sherlock Holmes museum.

Construction on the flats began after the plans had been verified and re-verified many times by many devotees of the stories. Finally came the great moment, the breaking of ground for the memorial to Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson at the newly labeled "221 B Bakerstreet." Several days later, a construction worker was making repairs to one of the upstairs rooms, when his hammer went through a weak point in the wall. On the other side was concealed a large wooden box stained and warped with age. He did not open it, but took it to the newly appointed curator of the museum. The curator opened it in curiosity soon after the construction worker left to complete his mission. It contained many loose pages of foolscap, a pen, several common notebooks, one leather-bound notebook stained with a red substance, a pair of broken eyeglasses, and an odd funnel which appeared to be made of leather.

I am not, at this time, at liberty to explain how this box came to be in my possession, but after much contemplation and indecision, I have decided, for better or for worse, to lay its contents before the public. I ask only that you will read the author's disclaimer before continuing on to the strange and disturbing tales recounted on those yellowed pages of foolscap contained within.

_E. G. Schildkret, Editor_

Author's Note

The horrors I have described in the ensuing pages are too delicate even for that tin dispatch box in which I have stored the most sensitive of those mysteries which I have shared with my singular friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. In truth, I should not have put them to paper at all, had it not been for an overwhelming desire I could not put to rest. Perhaps I thought to somehow verify their strange events in my brain by setting the facts as they stand in my memory down onto something so concrete and reliable as ink and paper. They will remain hidden forever in my own bedroom in a place I shall not reveal even to Holmes, at his request. It is my fervent wish that they should never come to light. If they do, it will be long after both Holmes and I are gone, mere fleeting memories upon the vast history of the world. Perhaps in that distant day, the world will be ready to read of the horrors I here describe. If it is not, I pity the fool who brings them to the light of day. May God have mercy on their souls.

_John H. Watson, M.D._

_A/N: This story requires a_ disclaimer_ as sections of the narrative are taken directly from a collection of stories called The Black Doctor and other Tales. It was written by our own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and is a very interesting, short read. The first of the mysteries I reference is called "The Horror of the Heights." The sections that are taken from the book will be sited at the end of the chapter (if my footnotes work...)  
-Anozira_


	2. A Jungle in the Air

The Black Notebook: Tales of Mystery and Horror  
_John H Watson, MD_

A Jungle in the Air

There was something indefinably odd about the atmosphere of 221 B, I decided as I stared lazily out the window, willing myself to get out of bed. It was the smell of bacon drifting up the stairs that finally gave me the impetus I needed to forsake the warm blankets in exchange for a dressing gown and slippers. As I descended the stairs to the sitting room, the feeling that something was out of place hit me again full-force.

The oddity confronted me immediately when I stepped into the sitting room. All was as it had been the night before, the piles of newspapers, the alarmingly precarious cascade of correspondence stabbed to the mantle, the racks of test-tubes half-full with unnamable fermenting substances on the deal-top table, the Stradivarius lying casually in Holmes' armchair where he had left it. The notable exception was the formidable form of Mycroft Holmes seated at our breakfast table. I stopped dead just inside the door, feeling rather shaken. Had one of the Biblical prophets appeared to share eggs and bacon it would not have startled me more. (Though perhaps, I thought idly, it should have done, as none of the biblical prophets would eat bacon.)

"Watson," Holmes said rising from the table, "You remember my brother, Mycroft, I trust?" His voice galvanized me into action and I smiled politely,

"Of course. Welcome to Baker Street, Mr. Holmes." I shook his hand across the table before settling myself into my accustomed chair and loading my empty plate with the mouthwatering breakfast Mrs. Hudson had laid out for us.

"Now that Watson has joined us, perhaps you would care to describe the matter that has brought you to our door on this cold, autumn morning," Holmes stated as he settled back in his chair, forsaking his barely-touched breakfast for the clay pipe that seemed always to follow the introduction of a new mystery. I believe it helped to rouse that magnificent brain of his, in preparation for the contemplation of a new problem.

Mycroft cleared his throat and regarded us both through critical eyes. "It is a very delicate matter. In fact, I daresay you will find it more fascinating than any mystery I have brought you thus far, Sherlock. It is odd in the extreme, sinister, and rather unexplainable. Quite a pretty little problem."

Holmes leaned forward in his chair, his eyes shining with delight, "Ah, Mycroft, you know how I love your unusual little problems."

"This one is, without a doubt, a king among mysteries," Mycroft replied. "It comes from a clerk in my office. I should not be able to describe the events as well as he can, thus I have gone so far as to bring him with me. He waits downstairs; perhaps you would care to have him shown up?" Mycroft smiled at us, seemingly unaware of his audacity."

"I would be a fool to turn you down, as you well know, brother Mycroft," Holmes replied with a chuckle. "Come, Watson, ring Mrs. Hudson to have the man shown up."

When Mycroft's clerk entered the room, Holmes had repaired to his favorite seat in the basket chair by the fire. Mycroft sat in the armchair I usually claimed as my own, as I chose to remain at the table and finish my breakfast. Meals are more important to me than they have ever been to Holmes. The promise of a mystery and a pipe is food enough for his formidable brain, and he often forgets he needs any other form of nourishment if I do not remind him.

The man who entered our sitting room was short in stature with a rigorously groomed blonde hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore spectacles perched on the end of his nose, but he removed these and tucked them in the pocket of his jacket as he shuffled toward Holmes with an old floppy felt hat in his hands. He seemed perfectly at ease, save for his eyes, which darted between Holmes, Mycroft, and myself, reminding me of a nervous animal.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes, there's no mistaking the family resemblance." His voice had a slight air of the cockney about it, barely noticeable.

"Indeed I am," Holmes responded taking the proffered hand and giving it one, vigorous shake, his expression seeming to bore into the stranger. To his credit, our visitor did not flinch away, but endured Holmes' gaze with little change in his manner.

"This is Mr. Perkins," Mycroft informed us with authority. I stood and acknowledged our visitor with a nod, and he in turn, strode over to shake my hand.

"A pleasure sir," he said calmly, but with little emotion as we exchanged a brief handshake, "You must be Dr. Watson. I must say I am very fond of your stories. I read them as often as I can get my hands on the _Strand_." I smiled in pleasure and thanked him. I am quite proud of my little tales, in spite of Holmes' outspoken distaste for them, and it is pleasant to hear my work appreciated once in a while.

Holmes made an impatient gesture and I silently offered Perkins a seat on the settee. "Now, tell us, what mystery has the sky presented to you?" Holmes asked. His eyes shone with merriment as he watched Perkins jump to his feet in the midst of settling himself and turn to Mycroft angrily.

"Mr. Holmes, I had hoped the tale would be left to me to tell properly," He accused Mycroft hotly.

"Calm yourself, Mr. Perkins," my friend replied soothingly, "your trust has not been broken. When I see a man with grease under his fingernails and a wing emblem sewn to the pocket of his jacket, I would be a fool were I not to conclude immediately that this man must be a mechanic of airplanes and consequently that the mystery he brings most likely involves the largely unexplored territory of the sky."

"You are quite correct, Mr. Holmes." Perkins replied, settling himself once more upon the settee. "Though the mystery I have to present to you is not my own. Rather it rightfully belongs to a close friend of mine and my employer, Mr. Joyce-Armstrong, who is a highly accomplished aeronaut with many accolades to his name. Sadly, he is unable to tell the story himself." Perkins paused, seemingly momentarily overcome.

"He has passed away?" I wondered solemnly, but Perkins shook his head.

"No, he has disappeared without explanation. But a most singular notebook has come into my possession, and I am at a loss as to what to do with it."

Perkins drew from an inner pocket a well-worn leather-bound notebook and handed it to Holmes.

"It is his own writing, undoubtedly. Several pages are missing, including the first two and the last."

Holmes flipped through the book's pages quickly and sniffed the cover before passing it to Mycroft. I rose to look at it more closely over Mycroft's shoulder. "It appears to be stained with blood, though I should have to do a test to verify it," Holmes stated. Perkins shook his head, staring at the book in Mycroft's hands.

"There is no need, I have tested it myself and it is, indeed blood. Mammalian definitely, and most likely human," Perkins replied. "It was found on the fifteenth of September in a ditch that skirts the hedge outlining the field of Lower Haycock. Several pages had become detached and as there was a light breeze that day, they fluttered around, stuck to the nettles in the ditch. A few paces away were a pair of broken glasses and a wood pipe, both of which belonged to Mr. Joyce Armstrong. I identified them myself. They were found by the farmer of that land who in turn, informed the police."

Here, Mycroft interrupted. "When I heard of the matter, I immediately asked that it be turned over to me. It is, as we have said, of a very delicate nature. Besides which, the men at Scotland Yard could make nothing of it."

Holmes leaned forward in his chair, holding a hand up to beg for silence. "You have begun at the end of the narrative, a habit for which I often reproach Watson, here. Perhaps you would care to tell your story from the beginning, Mr. Perkins."

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes, though to tell the truth, I hardly know where the beginning is." Holmes slumped back in his chair and rested his finger tips on his lips, his eyes half-closed. I was well familiar with this look of his from long experience, as it was the manner he habitually adopted to hear a new case. It often disconcerted clients, for although he was, in fact, listening carefully and filing away the information, he appeared to be half asleep. Mr. Perkins, however, seemed little to notice Holmes' change in attitude. He stared at the fire as he began his tale, his eyes far away.

"I suppose I should begin by telling you something of my friend and master Mr. Joyce-Armstrong. He is one of the finest members of the aeronautical club in the West End. He is looked upon by amateurs and professionals alike as one of the most daring and intellectual of flying men. For many years, now, I have been proud to be his personal mechanic. I provide services to many of the men in the club. You see Mr. Holmes, there aren't many aero-mechanics in the world just yet, the sport is quite young, and so I serve a variety of individuals. Mr. Joyce-Armstrong has always been my primary employer, however, and there has never been a better, more reliable master and talented airman. He has, however, a reputation for eccentricity which occasionally seems to verge on something more dangerous. His habit of carrying a shotgun with him in his airplane is one manifestation of it. It always seemed excessive to his collegues, but he would never explain it, not even to me, and I flatter myself that I was his closest friend. Another was his morbid fascination with the fall of Lieutenant Myrtle1. Perhaps you heard of it? It was all over the newspapers for a time, such a tragedy."

Holmes replied in the negative and gestured for Perkins to continue.

"At any rate, Lieutenant Myrtle was attempting a new height record when he apparently lost control of his airplane and fell from an altitude of over thirty feet. His plane was found scorched and in pieces in a field in Withyham. His body lay beside, crushed and disfigured but otherwise intact, save for his head, which was missing all-together, apparently obliterated by the force of the fall. When the mood was on him at gatherings of aviators, Joyce-Armstrong would remark to room at large with an enigmatic smile, 'And where, pray, is Myrtle's head?' In spite of this, when I read the notebook you hold in your hands it took me completely by surprise. I cannot explain its contents much less make an informed decision of what to do about them, and that is why I have come to you."

Perkins paused again and looked from one to the other of us appraisingly. "I'm sure I may trust you," he said, "But I must say that if the contents of this notebook ever get into the world it would cause a hysteria that would not be quelled easily."

"You may trust us." Holmes replied, "I have held more secrets in my hands than you would believe, and so has Watson. Pray continue."

Perkins gave one final nod and focused his eyes on Holmes as he recounted one of the most singular tales I have ever heard.

"There is plenty of interesting detail in the notebook to fill in the little gaps my narrative may leave, but I shall give you the essentials, and those details not included within its pages. The whole business began a week ago to the day. On that particular night, Mr. Joyce-Armstrong met me at his garage in Sussex to inspect his airplanes. He has a gorgeous little monoplane, a Paul Veroner, one of the lightest and best-handled airplanes in its class, and as we walked round it he mentioned in a rather off-handed way, 'I'll try for the height record in two days in this beauty.' I congratulated him, of course. He's one of the bravest fliers in London and it always struck me as odd that he never attempted the height record. I tried to get more information out of him, inquiring when he would take off and what height he would attempt. All he said was, 'Oh, higher than 30 thousand. I'll leave from the home field.' He looked as if he'd like to say more, but a curios look crossed his face and he remained silent the rest of the evening.

"There was a marked change in his behavior after that. He became introspective and solitary where normally he was a rather garrulous, social man, if rather awkward when in his cups. The more I saw of him, the more I was sure something odd was afoot. He met me again the night before the height record attempt to inspect the Veroner. He said not a word to me for nigh on two hours and made a rather over-cautious inspection. I was concerned for him and so I asked him what he feared. He did not respond at once, but continued his inspection and silence so long I thought for sure he hadn't heard me. I was about to reiterate my question when he jumped down from the cabin and looked me straight in the eye with a haunted look on his face, 'there's a jungle in the air, Perkins.' He whispered to me, as if he were telling me the most dangerous of secrets, and perhaps he was. It was on that night that I first saw this notebook. He pulled it out of his pocket and showed it to me saying, "All my work I have written here and should I fail tomorrow, I shall leave it to you to tell the world or not as you see fit.' Well, you can imagine how that alarmed me. I begged him to take him with me, but he shook his head. The Veroner could only take one, and as it was apt to be a still day on the morrow, his best chance at the height record would be to take a flexible plane with a light load.

"I saw him off the ground of his home field in south Sussex five days ago. He made another inspection of his airplane, then dressed himself in several layers of heavy coats, installed the oxygen tank he'd need after two thousand feet and checked his shot gun. He did not look nervous, or excited, in fact, he looked impassive, almost bored. He jumped into the Veroner and waved to me before starting the engine. In the moment before he took off, I saw him glance towards the sky and shudder. Perhaps I imagined it, but I am not a fanciful man. That was the last I saw of him. Four days later, this journal was found in the state you see it in, and today I came first to Mr. Mycroft Holmes and now to you. That is my tale as it stands."

There was a long silence in which Holmes seemed to stare at nothing while Perkins and I sat awkwardly. Mycroft Holmes seemed not to notice the discomfort in the room. He sat smoking a cigar, an odd smile on his face. He broke the silence in the room after a minute or two, "As I said, Sherlock, quite a pretty problem."

"Indeed. You have not told me yet about this notebook here. Have you read it, Mr. Perkins? Do you know what it contains?"

"I have," Perkins replied, "though I'd advise you to read it for yourself, the words are so fantastic. It is a rather full account of Mr. Joyce-Armstrong's exploits as an aeronaut along with some of his inner thoughts. It is the last few pages that are most interesting. They speak of the deaths of Lieutenant Myrtle and Hay Connor, who collapsed suddenly shortly after making an ascent, apparently of heart disease."

"I believe, Sherlock, that you have all the information you need at present. I hate to cut the interview short, but we are all men with duties, and neither the case nor the country will be well served by sitting in this room in discussion."

"You are quite correct Mycroft," Holmes replied as he rose from his chair, "I will take your case, Mr. Perkins. If you will supply me with the address of the farmer who found this most interesting journal, I will most certainly look more closely into the matter and report back to you in a few days time."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Perkins replied, looking much relieved, standing to take his leave. Holmes saw them to the door, giving his brother a brief handshake farewell and his client a mere nod of the head. I shook Perkins' hand with friendly camaraderie, for I liked the man. He had a frank way of talking that appealed to me and seemed well collected, in spite of the disturbing events in which he was embroiled. Before he took his leave, however, Perkins looked from one to the other of us with a dark expression in his eyes. "Do read the journal for yourself, but take care. If half of what Joyce-Armstrong says there is true, there are more fearful things than men and beasts in the world."

------

Later in the evening, we sat together in front of the fire smoking in friendly silence. Holmes bent over the sinister journal Perkins had entrusted to him, while I absorbed myself in writing up a previous case, careful not to disturb his mind as it turned the problem over and over, searching for clues.

Suddenly, Holmes looked up at me, "Watson, would you do me a great favor?"

"Anything, Holmes,"

"You have become indispensable to me," he said with a smile, "I am unable to ponder a problem unless I have heard it in your voice." He handed me the notebook and pointed with one long finger, "read this passage just here."

I cleared my throat and held the book to the light, doing my best to decipher the writing sprawled across the page. He had asked me to begin in the middle of a paragraph, but I took up the narrative at just the spot he requested,

" '…And then there was the death of Hay Connor. He came down in a tremendous vol-plané from and unknown height. He never got off his machine and died in his pilot's seat. Died of what? 'Heart disease,' said the doctors. Rubbish! Hay Connor's heart was a sound as mine is. What did Venables say? Venables was the only man who was at his side when he died. He said that he as shivering and looked like a man who had been badly scared. 'Died of fright,' said Venables, but could not imagine what he was frightened about. Only said one word to Venables, which sounded like 'Monstrous.' They could make nothing of it at the inquest. But I could make something of it. Monsters! That was the last word of poor Harry Hay Connor. And he did die of fright, just as Venables thought.

"And then there was Myrtle's head. Do you really believe--does anyone believe—that a man's head could be driven clean into his body by the force of a fall? And then the grease upon his clothes—'All slimy with grease,' said somebody at the inquest. Queer that nobody got to thinking after that! I did—but, then, I had been thinking for a good long time. I've made three ascents—how Perkins used to chaff me about my shot-gun—but I've never been high enough. Now, with this new light Paul Veroner machine I should easily touch thirty-thousand tomorrow. I'll have a shot at the record. Maybe I shall have a shot at something else as well. I'll visit the air-jungle to-morrow—and if there's anything there I shall know it.'" 2

The entry ended there and there were several blank spaces followed by one final entry the hand writing was scrawled messily in a wavering diagonal line down the middle of the page. It looked like it had been written hastily. In curiosity I read it to myself, but Holmes bade me, "Read it aloud, Watson." And so I did.

" 'Forty-three thousand feet. I shall never see earth again. They are beneath me, three of them. God help me, it is a dreadful death to die!'" 3

"What do you make of it, Watson?"

"It is a strange account. What do you suppose killed him?"

Holmes regarded the fire for a moment. "I am not sure he's dead." He said after a moment, "But there is not sufficient data to say either way. It would appear some sort of sky monster got the best of him, but one cannot insist there are monsters in the sky without sounding a bit of a lunantic." He ceased once more into brooding silence. "We simply must collect more data Watson. When is the next train to Sussex?"

I consulted the time table on my desk, "forty minutes."

"Plenty of time to get to Euston Station. Very well, Watson, pack an overnight bag and bring that journal along with you. We shall pay a visit to this farmer."

_Footnotes_  
1 This is a direct quote taken from: Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan. The Black Doctor. "Horror of the Heights." D. Appelton & Company, London UK: 1894. 12

2 Entire paragraph is a quote from Horror of the Heights, citation above. Page 15. the narrative is told as though the reader were reading Joyce-Armstrong's journal, so I took this exerpt from the journal from Doyle's text.

3 Page 29.


End file.
